


Assorted Tumblr Ficlets [Supernatural]

by xylodemon



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Ficlet Collection, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-08
Updated: 2017-11-09
Packaged: 2017-12-31 21:39:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 11,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1036681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xylodemon/pseuds/xylodemon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of ficlets written for prompts on Tumblr. Characters, pairings, and ratings will vary.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. unpacked - Cas/Dean, gen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For [](http://josephinesands.tumblr.com/)[**josephinesands**](http://josephinesands.tumblr.com/), who wanted Cas wearing ugly sweaters. Set in a vague future after 9x06.

When Cas finally, finally moves into the bunker, he brings a duffle bag and a small cardboard box. He looks rumpled and tired, frayed in the way that comes from spending a day and a half on a Greyhound bus, shadows under his eyes and stubble creeping over his jaw, and he doesn't say anything for what feels like a really long time, peering around his new bedroom with the box balanced on his hip and the duffle bag slouched beside his feet.

"Is that everything?" Dean asks, mostly to feed the awkward silence. He hasn't seen Cas in close to four months, since that case they worked together. Things seem less strained now than they did then, when Cas was still confused by humanity and full of questions Dean couldn't answer without telling him everything about Ezekiel and Sam, but it's nowhere as easy and comfortable as what they had before.

Cas glances down at the box, then back up at Dean. "I don't own much. The woman I worked for, Nora -- she told me people often buy things to beautify their homes, but my apartment lacked the space for personal effects."

"Well, you have it now." Dean tries to picture Cas collecting things -- seashells or ashtrays or model airplanes -- but his mind blanks out completely before he gets anywhere. "If you want."

Cas' bedroom is across the hall from Dean's and set up in the same way, just a bed and a night stand and a desk and a chest of drawers, and Dean hovers in the doorway as Cas starts to unpack, driven by curiosity and a stubborn desire to keep Cas close after missing him for months and months. Cas hums under his breath as he works, something upbeat and bright, the kind of song that gets played inside a Gas-n-Sip every hour on the hour. The box yields a couple of paperback books, a couple more magazines, a shaving kit, a squashed and dirty baseball cap, and a wind-up alarm clock; the bag yields some spare underwear and socks, two extra pairs of jeans, a small handful of shirts, and the ugliest sweater Dean has ever seen.

"Where did you get that?" Dean asks, floundering somewhere between horrified and amused.

"This?" Cas clutches the sweater to his chest, one sleeve bunched in his hands and the other hanging down to dance around his leg. It's black and blue and covered with red and yellow triangles. "I bought it at Goodwill."

"Why?"

"Heating my apartment was not always within my means."

"Cas," Dean says, guilt twisting into his gut and settling like a stone. He'd sent Cas away with a cell phone and a credit card and all the cash he'd had on him, but he'd worried constantly that it wouldn't be enough. "You should've called if you needed something."

"You had more important problems."

The guilt sharpens and writhes, stabbing at something underneath Dean's ribs. "Damn it, Cas. I would've come. I would've -- "

"I was fine," Cas insists, frustration tugging at the corners of his mouth. He folds the sweater and tucks it into the chest of drawers, then takes another one out of his bag, this one three shades of blue divided by green stripes. "I was budgeting. Warm clothing seemed like a better investment than running the heater every time I felt cold."

He turns back to his stuff, digging two more sweaters from the bag -- the first a red, orange, and brown nightmare that he puts in the chest of drawers, the second a gray and purple mess that he pulls over his head with a quiet sigh. It's too big for him, the collar yawning to one side and the cuffs stretching well past his wrists. He looks ridiculous; Dean wants to touch the long cord of his neck, the careful hollow of his throat.

"You should've called," he says, moving closer to Cas. "Even if you didn't -- you _never_ called." That isn't quite true. Cas did call a few times, twice before that case they worked and another three or four times after, but Cas was always quiet and gruff, and it wasn't enough to ease the constant ache in Dean's chest. "I was worried."

"It was easier." Cas looks over at Dean, then frowns at the floor, tugging at a loose thread on his awful sweater. "Hearing your voice, I -- it made me miss you too much."

Dean kisses him, because it's easier. He curls one hand into the front of Cas' sweater and slides the other into Cas' hair, and hopes Cas can feel all the things he can't say, _I'm sorry_ and _I missed you_ and _I wish I hadn't needed to send you away._


	2. slow - Cas/Dean, adult

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mostly [](http://controlyourmoose.tumblr.com/)[**controlyourmoose**](http://controlyourmoose.tumblr.com/) [fault](http://controlyourmoose.tumblr.com/post/66744340842/do-u-ever-just-think-about-cas-using-one-of-his); enabled by [](http://josephinesands.tumblr.com/)[**josephinesands**](http://josephinesands.tumblr.com/).

The bed creaks. Cas shifts closer, pushing in between Dean's legs; he brushes his hand over Dean's knee, runs it up the inside of Dean's thigh. Dean makes a noise in the back of his throat, soft and rough and once, and his fingers twist in the sheet, pulling it taut. He tips his head back on the pillow, his jaw working as he swallows, as he sucks in another breath.

"Christ."

"Be still," Cas says quietly, his lips moving against Dean's skin. He presses a kiss to the base of Dean's dick, then drags his mouth up the length of it, slow and wet. Dean shifts beneath him, restless, always restless, his back arching and his foot rubbing against Cas' side; Cas skims his hands up to Dean's hips, pinning him to the bed as he sucks Dean's dick into his mouth. 

Dean makes another noise, throaty and low, a moan that digs at something hidden underneath Cas' skin, and Cas sucks him harder and faster, wanting to hear it again and again and again. He curls his tongue over the head, teases it over the slit, hollowing his cheeks as he ducks back down, as Dean's dick nudges the back of his throat. He slides his hands up to Dean's belly, his fingers splayed wide, his thumbs touching just below Dean's navel. The angle is awkward, but if he drops his shoulders a little he can just look up Dean's body, see the uneven rise and fall of his chest, the long line of his throat, the way he is watching Cas through half-closed eyes. 

The bed creaks again. Dean knots his hand in Cas' hair, tugging slightly, his hips working as he tries to thrust, and Cas leans into him, holding one hand on Dean's belly, wrapping the other around the base of Dean's dick, stroking up to meet his mouth.

"Fuck, Cas."

Dean's thighs start to shake. His toes curl into the sheets, and Cas takes him in as far as he can, heat coiling in his belly at the sounds Dean makes when he comes.


	3. closer - Cas/Dean, gen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for [](http://sweatersammys.tumblr.com/)[**sweatersammys**](http://sweatersammys.tumblr.com/)

Cas has graveyard dirt on his hands and a long smear of blood on his face, and Dean crowds him back against the car, running his fingers over the scratch on his temple and the reddish bruise at the corner of his jaw. 

"Are you all right?" It's a stupid question, pointless, Cas can heal himself with half a thought, but knowing that doesn't make it any easier when Cas gets hurt. Earlier, the ghost they were hunting had tossed Cas into a headstone with a sound like bones snapping, and Dean had watched him slump over with a knot in his throat and a sick lurch in his gut, his hands shaking as he'd fumbled with the matches and salt. 

"I am fine," Cas says quietly, but he smiles as Dean presses closer, tilting his head as Dean palms the side of his neck, as Dean rubs his thumb at the corner of his jaw, and when Dean kisses him he makes a soft noise into Dean's mouth and fists his dirty hands in the front of Dean's shirt.

The cemetery is quiet, except for the cicadas buzzing in the hedge beside the car; Dean can hear Sam shoveling dirt into the grave they opened, humming something low and tuneless under his breath. Dean wraps his arms around Cas, pulling him into a tight hug, one hand curling into the hair at the back of Cas' head. Cas lets his teeth catch the well of Dean's lower lip, then drags his mouth down the line of Dean's jaw, all stubble and heat, and he slides his hand over Dean's ribs, where Dean is stiff and sore from being thrown into a tree. The pain ebbs away with a burst of grace, chilly and bright, like ice water splashing against his side, just sudden enough to make Dean shiver and gasp against Cas' cheek.

"You didn't have to do that," Dean says. It hadn't been much of an injury, just bruised skin and angry muscles, nothing a hot shower and a couple of aspirin wouldn't have fixed.

Cas just huffs, biting a slow, wet kiss into the skin below Dean's ear. His hands and face and coat are clean now, but his shirt is missing a button at the collar, yawning open around the sweaty hollow of his throat, and his hair is a wreck, sticking up in several directions at once. Dean leans in closer, pinning Cas back against the car with his hands at Cas' hips. He noses at Cas' jaw until he finds Cas' mouth, kissing him until he hears Sam's boots crunching against the gravel and the tired creak of the Impala's trunk.

"You guys about ready?" Sam asks.

They should go; it's going to rain soon, and the ghost had screamed bloody murder as she burned out, and they still have to drive back to the motel, fifty miles away and two towns over.

"In a minute, yeah," Dean says, and kisses Cas again.


	4. one-word tumblr prompts - Cas/Dean, various

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These are just drabblets written for one-word prompts on tumblr. All Dean/Cas, all roughly 100 words.

[ **warmth** \-- for anon]

They curl together on the couch, drowsing as the tv flashes and murmurs in the background, Cas’ head under Dean’s chin and Dean’s arms wrapped around Cas’ shoulders, an old blanket pulled around them, holding out the bunker’s chill. Dean brushes his thumb over the soft skin behind Cas’ ear, and Cas shifts a little closer, making a rough, sleepy noise into the hollow of Dean’s throat. He tips his head up, pressing a kiss to the point of Dean’s chin; the remote slides to the floor, but Dean sighs and curves his hand around the back of Cas’ neck.

[ **thighs** \-- for sweetladyjustice]

The bed creaks softly as Cas stretches back against the pillows, his knees bent and his legs spread, his hands already twisting in the sheets. Dean presses in as close as he can, leaning in for a kiss, long and slow and dirty, then slides down Cas’ body, running his hands over Cas’ thighs, tracing his fingers over every line and curve of muscle. He noses at the crease of Cas’ hip, first one side and then the other, all stubble and heat and slow, sucking kisses, smiling at the noises Cas makes, the way his back arches off the bed, how his heel digs into Dean’s side.

[ **socks** \-- for fire-of-fire]

Cas buys them on a salt-and-butane stop in the middle of a hunt, their fourth day tracking an angry spirit through a rainstorm. Everything they own is wet, the kind of wet that never really seems to dry out, but these are the ugliest things Dean has ever seen, over-the-calf dress socks in multicolored stripes. Cas just smiles as he throws them into the cart, and later he tucks his clown-suit feet under Dean’s thigh, then props them in Dean’s lap, and Dean catches himself with his hand curled around Cas’ ankle, his thumb tapping over a red stripe, then a yellow one, then a blue one.

[ **pen** \-- for deanhugchester]

The worst part of research is waiting while it gets done; Sam is searching for next-of-kin online and Cas is flipping through a book, trying to decide between wraith or ghoul. Dean taps his foot until his leg shakes the table, then snatches up a pen, drumming it on a pile of papers, chewing at the cap until it cracks between his teeth. Cas lays his hand on Dean’s restless knee, and Dean doodles a star at the base of Cas’ middle finger, a spiral on the pad of Cas’ thumb, writes his name on the inside of Cas’ wrist, crookedly, the letters getting smaller as he goes, blue ink smeared over Cas’ pulse.

[ **needy** \-- for staircasetothesea]

Cas can’t get close enough. He fists his hands in the front of Dean’s shirt, trying to pull Dean toward him as they fall back against the seat, the leather upholstery squeaking under his knees, his foot slipping against the door. Everything his humid and thick, and there isn’t enough room, and Dean’s hand is sweaty at the back of Cas’ neck, his fingers twisting into Cas’ hair as he kisses the line of Cas’ jaw. Cas rolls his hips, his mouth open and wet against Dean’s check, then hides his hot face in the curve of Dean’s neck, closing his eyes as he rubs himself against Dean’s thigh.

[ **reunion** \-- for nerdacious]

Cas comes back to the bunker on a Sunday, early in the morning, just as the sky is starting to brighten and bruise; Dean is outside, watching the sun nudge the horizon because it’s easier than not sleeping, last night’s whiskey heavy in his arms and legs, the mark a dull ache on the inside of his arm. Cas studies him for a moment, tilts his head but doesn’t quite squint, says hello in a voice like gravel crunching under the Impala’s wheels. He curves his hand over Dean’s cheek, his palm sunrise-cold against Dean’s skin, and Dean kisses him before he disappears for another month, his eyes closed and his heart hammering in his throat.

[ **incandescent** \-- for anon] 

They stop for gas outside Enid, just as the sun is sinking out of sight; the fluorescent lights above the pump wash everything in yellow, fading the asphalt to gray and rusting the Impala to dark brown, leeching the color from Cas’ coat, from his skin. He leans against the trunk while they wait, his feet crossed at the ankles and his hand curved over the fin, and Dean covers it with his own, squeezes a little, brushes over Cas’ long fingers and sharply bent knuckles, the gun callus building at the crease of Cas’ thumb and the sparse hairs at the start of his wrist.

[ **paper** \-- for radioactiveamoebas] 

Dean isn't paying attention when he doodles a heart on the stuffy translation Cas is working on; he's tired and hungry and Sam is complaining about badly-kept cemetery records, and he just wants something to do with his hands. But the next day he finds a bar napkin in his pocket, _I love you_ written on the back in Cas' blocky, awkward scrawl, and _I always will_ the day after that, wedged at the bottom of an old gas receipt. Dean is terrible with words, even when he doesn't need to say them aloud, so he draws more hearts on Cas' crossword puzzles, leaves scraps of paper covered in dirty stick figures in Cas' sock drawer. Then the newspaper prints an article that sounds like angel killings, and he blocks out the headline and replaces it with one word -- _stay_.


	5. here -- Cas/Dean, gen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Episode tag; spoilers for 9x22.

"I'm sorry," Dean says later, quietly, unable to look Cas in the eye. His hands clench into shaky fists at his sides, angel blood sticky between his fingers.

"Why?"

"They left you. All of them." Dean shifts in the doorway, too jittery to sit, too tired to stand. The rush that comes with using the First Blade always crests over him like a wave, leaves him drained and useless when it finally ebbs away.

Cas frowns. "An hour ago you said the three of us were enough."

An hour ago, Gadreel's meatsuit hadn't been bleeding out on the couch. "I was wrong." If he hadn't been touching the First Blade when he shook Gadreel's hand, he wouldn't have -- well. He hates the sonofabitch for what he did to Kevin and Sam, but Cas needs the intel. Metatron is what's important right now. "Is he gonna make it?"

"I was able to save him." Cas straightens and moves away from the couch. Behind him, Gadreel is laid out as stiff as a statue, his face too pale and his skin stretched too tightly over his jaw; the need to touch the First Blade is like a living thing Dean's gut, but underneath that he feels hollow and worthless, emptied of everything. "He may sleep for a day or two. His vessel will need the rest."

"I'm sorry. You shouldn't be wasting your grace like that."

"I didn't use much," Cas says, shaking his head. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, and blood is streaked up and down his arm. "Dean, Hannah never should've asked that of me."

"Yeah, I know. Violence wasn't supposed to be your crew's gig."

"No. That's not what I meant." He catches Dean's arm, his hand sliding up, stopping just below the Mark. "You mean far more to me than Metatron."

The heat in Dean's gut shifts, itching at something that crawls up the back of his neck, burns under his jaw. "Killing Metatron is your only shot at going home."

"I never -- I don't want to return to heaven."

"What?" 

"Metatron betrayed me. He used me to expel the angels, and fighting him was the only way to right that wrong, to reopen heaven so my brothers and sisters could return, but I wanted -- I _want_ to stay here."

"Here?"

"Yes, here. On earth. With you."

"With, um. Cas," Dean says, his chest pulling tight. Cas is standing too close, is still holding his arm. "Cas, you can't -- "

"I love you."

Dean closes his eyes. His heart is beating so hard he can feel it in the back of his throat.

"I love you," Cas says again, soft. He kisses the curve of Dean's cheek and the edge of Dean's jaw, his fingers curling into the sleeve of Dean's shirt. The First Blade is still a sour itch under Dean's skin, but Cas -- Cas. He smells like human sweat and angel blood, and when he leans in again Dean presses their mouths together, pushes his hand into Cas' hair.


	6. brimful - Cas/Dean, gen

Let's talk about Cas driving back to the bunker, after Sam calls to tell him that Dean is (sorta) alive, and he doesn't think about it, doesn't think about it and doesn't think about it, still shaky with grief, bone-deep and exhausting, different than the slow, sullen sadness he'd felt when Dean had told him he couldn't stay, a constant pain that slices between ribs like a knife, crawls up into the back of his throat. And when he finally sees Dean, upright and (not quite) breathing, blood smeared along the side of his jaw, he feels relieved and devastated at exactly the same time, his near-humanity making everything worse, his emotions amplified by the remainder of his grace until they are too big and too loud and too bright, itching underneath his skin, flickering in the corner of his eye.

He can smell the sulfur shrouding Dean's blood, taste it on the back of his tongue, thin and sharp, a taint in the air, and he can (almost) see what's left of Dean's soul, the righteous light that had guided him through the gates of hell, into the deepest and darkest corners of perdition. His chest aches as he looks at Dean's new face, Dean's _demon_ face -- the ragged, tapered curl of horns, the longer, sharper teeth, the way the eyes inside the smoke are (nearly) the same impossible green of his vessel -- but he neither repulsed or afraid, his instinct to protect Dean stronger than his impulse to smite one of hell's creatures. He reaches out, wanting to pull Dean close, wishing Dean would allow it.

"Cas," Dean says, rough, the blood on his face twisting the lines of his mouth as it moves. "You -- um." He cocks his head to the side, his eyes burning black, and Cas realizes that Dean can (finally) see the truth of him -- all six of his wings; all four of his faces, three of them formed after animals long since extinct; the holy light pulsing at the center of him, weakened now, dim in more places than not, the rest of it fading, tarnished a cloudy, sickly yellow. He waits in silence, expecting Dean to be horrified, fearful, but Dean just shakes his head, murmurs, "huh," under his breath.

"What?"

"Nothing. I just -- I expected the _you_ you to be bigger, is all."

Cas smiles a little; he remembers the day Dean summoned him to that barn, how he'd given Dean an estimate of his true size and Dean had crudely accused him of boasting. Still wanting to touch, he slides his hand up to Dean's shoulder, lets it rest at the curve of Dean's neck. Dean's eyes burn black again; he makes a low, choked noise in the back of his throat, curling his hands into fists and Cas pulls him close.

"I fucked it up," Dean says, his face hidden against the side of Cas' jaw. His sulfur-smell is stronger this close, but Cas breathes it in deeply, determined not to flinch. "I fucked it all up. I lied to Sammy, and I got Kevin killed, and I couldn't kill Metatron, and now -- now I'm -- "

Cas kisses him, tastes dust and smoke and ash, but it's just there on the surface, hasn't yet burrowed into Dean's soul, and that fills Cas with something new, something lighter and brighter than the grief he carried on the long drive back to Kansas, and when Dean hums against his mouth, curls a hand into his hair, Cas recognizes this buoyant, brimful feeling for what it is: hope.


	7. settled - Cas/Dean, gen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Obligatory Father's Day kidfic.

Mary Grace shifts in her sleep, making a soft noise Dean barely hears over the tinkle of her mobile, a collection of stars and moons hand-painted by Garth. His shoulder blocks the flare of the nightlight in a way that cuts the crib in half; the cartoon dinosaurs on Mary Grace's pajamas are green and orange to her shoulder, then muddied by shadows from there down to her feet. Dean just stares at her for a moment, resting his hands on the rail of the crib, watching the perfect sweep of her eyelashes, the tight curl of her hands, the steady rise and fall of her chest.

She's nearly seven months old, but she still seems impossibly tiny. Dean reaches for her, wanting to pat her back or stroke the curve of her cheek, but pulls back before touching her. They had a hard time putting her down tonight; he doesn't want to wake her up now.

"Dean?"

Dean turns around; Cas is yawning in the doorway, his hair everywhere and his bare toes curling in the carpet. He walks over, rubbing at his eyes, then wraps his arms around Dean and noses at Dean's jaw.

"I didn't hear her cry."

"No," Dean mumbles, mostly to the side of Cas' neck. His skin is still sleep-warm, smells like their bed. "I was just -- um."

They haven't found a baby monitor that will work inside the bunker. Sam understands why, something about radio waves and the antique machinery in the war room, but Dean had zoned out the one time he'd tried to explain, more interested in watching Cas fight with a flat-packed crib, complete with incomprehensible IKEA instructions. They'd compensated by putting the nursery right across the hall from their bedroom, but Dean isn't -- he doesn't know.

They don't hunt anymore, not really. Dean did a salt-and-burn in White Mound about two weeks ago -- thirty minutes there, thirty minutes at the grave, thirty minutes back, home before Cas gave Mary Grace her bath -- but for the most part all three of them are out of the game. They run the phones for Krissy's crew, and chase down lore for any other hunter that calls. Two days a week, Cas teaches theology at Cloud County Community College. Hell is closed, Heaven finally got its shit straight, and the bunker is warded nine ways to Sunday. They're safe now. Dean knows they're safe. But some nights, he can't make himself settle.

Mary Grace shifts again, stretching her little legs and flexing her tiny feet. Dean loves her so much he thinks it might kill him.

"Dean." Cas runs his hand up Dean's back, rubbing slow circles between Dean's shoulders. "If I bring you back to bed are you going to get up again in an hour?"

Carefully, Dean brushes his fingers through Mary Grace's hair.

"Probably."

Cas sighs, but there's no real heat behind it. He understands all the things Dean can't say -- that he grew up on the road, that he's never really had anything permanent, that he raised Sam the best he could but wishes he'd done better, wants to do better now. He lets Dean stew for another minute or two, then lifts Mary Grace out of the crib, cradling her head in his hand as he tucks her against his shoulder. "Come on." He slides his other hand over Dean's hip, nudging Dean toward the door. "We'll have a slumber party."

They settle in on their sides with Mary Grace between them, and Dean falls asleep with Cas' hand spread over his hip and Mary Grace's hand curled around his finger.


	8. missed -- Cas/Dean, gen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For For [](http://captainshakspear.tumblr.com/)[**captainshakespear**](http://captainshakespear.tumblr.com/), who was having a long day.

Let’s talk about Dean calling Cas while he’s on the road. He doesn’t know why he does it; Cas is busy doing angel things, and god knows he booked out of the bunker as fast as he could the night they patched up Dean’s soul, but Dean is stuck in a shitty motel outside Springfield, trapped indoors because of the rain, and Sam off somewhere hustling pool, and Dean can’t make himself settle, even after two beers.

Cas answers on the third ring, his voice slow and quiet and gruff, and for a split-second Dean worries that Cas had been sleeping, then remembers that Cas is all juiced up again. That doesn’t stop him from imagining it: Cas rubbing at his eyes, and at the pillow creases on his cheek, his hair disheveled, curling wildly behind his ears. 

"Where are you?" Dean asks.

"Logan, Utah," Cas replies, and that’s over a thousand miles from Missouri, too far drive to out there on the pretense of a hunt, but he wants to — Jesus Christ, he wants to. He and Sam came to Springfield for a job that turned out to be bogus, and Sam figured they’d might as well stay the night and make a few dollars since they already charged the room, but Dean would hit the road in an instant if he thought Cas wanted him around.

He sighs instead, and mumbles, “Sorry,” into the phone, because Utah is the worst, easily his least favorite state. “Are you having any luck, at least?”

"No," Cas admits irritably. "Locating these angels is proving difficult, likely because they do not want to be found, and — I’m not sure forcing them to return to heaven is still the best course."

"Then stop," Dean blurts, and heat flushes across his face, but now that the words have started he can’t make himself stop. "Come back h — come back to the bunker. Sammy and I are heading there in the morning."

"Dean, I — "

"I miss you." 

Cas is silent for a long time, long enouh that Dean almost hangs up, embarrassment a living thing in his gut. They’ve been friends all these years, but Cas has his mojo back, and is making plans to go back to heaven and maybe stay there, and Dean is just a dipshit human who keeps getting himself marked for hell. Then:

"I miss you, too." Cas sighs into the phone, the sound rattling in Dean’s ear like the wind. "Of all the things I have done on earth, I much prefer hunting with you to anything else."

It takes a second for that to sink in — to really sink in — but when it does, the cold weight that has been in Dean’s gut for weeks starts to warm and ease away. “Then do it. Come back.”

"Yes, all right. I — I will."

"Okay," Dean says, smiling. "I’ll see you at home."


	9. sundays - Cas/Dean, gen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For [](http://deanhugchester.tumblr.com/)[**deanhugchester**](http://deanhugchester.tumblr.com/), who asked me about [Dean and Cas' favorite thing to do on lazy Sunday afternoons](http://xylodemon.tumblr.com/post/101713152249/cas-and-deans-favorite-thing-to-do-on-a-lazy-sunday).

I think they have a lot of favorites -- Dean likes to sleep late, and watch football, and catch up on the tv shows he misses when he's on the road. He also likes to cook; having a kitchen has made him appreciate food that doesn't leave puddles of grease on the plate. He still tends toward trucker fare -- burgers, meatloaf, steak and potatoes, chicken-fried steak -- but it tastes better off his own stove, especially when he first gets home from a hunt.

Cas likes to read. He starts out with the lore books in the bunker; it's an incredibly inclusive library, and he doesn't see the point in fiction when he already knows the endings. But Sam badgers him into reading the Harry Potter books, and he finds the story much more vivid and engaging than the meager summary Metatron dumped in his head. He ends up falling in love with fantasy, amazed at the breadth of human imagination. He also finds a hidden room on the top floor of the bunker, almost like a conservatory; it has large windows and a skylight and he promptly starts filling it with plants.

Most of the time, they do these things together. Cas reads while Dean watches the Chief's lose, curling up on the couch barefoot so he has an excuse to nudge his cold toes underneath Dean's thigh, and Dean takes Sam's laptop up to the conservatory so he can watch The Walking Dead while Cas talks to his potted ficus. Their absolute favorite favorite thing to do on lazy, no-hunt Sundays is stay in bed; they've gotten so bad about it Sam stops being surprised when they don't show their faces until dinnertime.

It doesn't matter how they start out; they almost always end up with Dean as the little spoon. Which he still pretends to find embarrassing -- he's the taller one! An entire inch taller! -- but Cas just hums into his hair and kisses the back of his neck, soft and wet and slow. If Dean is still wearing a shirt, Cas slides his hand underneath it, flattens his palm over Dean's heartbeat, and eventually Dean shifts around until he can turn his head and bite at Cas' jaw, and sometimes one of them sleeps, and sometimes they both sleep, and sometimes neither of them sleep, because they're too busy kissing and kissing and kissing. Those Sundays they stay in bed well after dinnertime, and Sam finally gives in and knocks on the door, because Dean promised to cook dinner, and if that's not going to happen Sam is going to get take-out from that Mexican place in Smith City, and he's not bringing back any for them.


	10. impala67 - Dean, Sam (implied Dean/Cas), gen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Entirely [](http://crossroadscastiel.tumblr.com/)[**crossroadscastiel**](http://crossroadscastiel.tumblr.com/)'s fault, and inspired by this completely ridiculous picture:
> 
> Spoilers for the 10x07 promo.

An ad for the dating app pops up while Dean is playing Candy Crush. Not that Dean would ever admit to playing Candy Crush.

_INSTANTLY CONNECT WITH SINGLES IN YOUR AREA!_

Dean snorts under his breath. Lebanon's population tops out at a little over two hundred; the closest thing to singles in Dean's area are the cows grazing along US 281.

Still, it couldn't -- well. He hadn't been lying when he told Sam hunting is the only normal he knows. It is. It's just that hunting is also really fucking lonely sometimes -- especially right now, when he's less than a month back inside his own skin and getting closer and closer to the wrong side of thirty-five. He's pretty much accepted that settling down won't even be in his cards, unless -- well. No sense thinking about that right now.

_COMPATIBILITY MATCHED!_

Dean snorts at that, too; he doesn't need some phone thingamajij to help him with _that_. He's always had a knack for blending in when he wants to, adapting to his surroundings, recognizing what people want to see and hear. He's just never figured out if it's part of the job, or if it's something he picked up from living on the road.

The app takes his cell number and email address, then asks him a good thirty questions about his likes and dislikes. He tells it he's looking for women only, because picking up dudes would just make him think of Cas, and he says that he prefers dark hair and light eyes, wants someone fairly close to his own age, no younger than twenty-five. No smokers, because it's nearly impossible to get that smell out of the Impala's leather. Nothing serious, because he travels a lot for his job.

He clicks the button that subscribes him to matches when he's away from his listed location. Lebanon isn't exactly a tourist hot-spot; if he gets any matches at all, it'll be when he's on the road.

 

+

 

He needs a profile picture.

"You want me to what?" Sam asks dubiously.

They're outside the bunker's garage door, standing in the narrow strip of shade cast by the retaining wall. A breeze is ruffling the trees and Baby's chrome is glinting in the weak sunlight.

"I want you to -- you know." Dean clears his throat. "Take my picture."

"With the car."

"Yeah, man. I just got her all shined up again."

Sam's mouth twitches. "And now you want a memento for your scrapbook?"

"Shut the fuck up."

"All right, all right," Sam says. He shakes his head, then points at the Impala. "Just stand over there and -- whatever."

Dean leans back against the car, one knee slightly bent. He rolls his shoulders and tugs on one of his sleeves, then rests his hands where the front quarter-panel curves up into the hood. He feels ridiculous. He probably looks ridiculous.

"You ready?" Sam asks, aiming the phone.

"Yeah," Dean says, except that the collar of his jacket is crowded up against his jaw. "No, hang on."

He shrugs off his jacket, then walks around to the front of the car and leans his ass against the center of the hood. He crosses he feet at the ankles, but he can't figure out what to do with his hands. Bracing them back on the hood makes him feel like a swimsuit model; crossing his arms makes his flannel bunch up under his armpits.

"Dude," Sam says, waving the phone. "I was watching the game."

"Yeah, okay. Come on, I'm ready for my close up."

Sam aims the phone again. Then he takes a step back. And another. Then one to the side. He fiddles with something on the phone's screen -- probably the flash -- then takes a step forward and gestures for Dean to move to his left.

"Okay, Ansel Adams," Dean says. "Who's holding us up now?"

"There's too much sun right there. Just -- just move over."

Dean slides back over to where he started, but he angles his body forward, cocking one hip against the side of the car. He still feels ridiculous. The breeze picks up a little; the tails of his flannel flap around his torso and he waves Sam off.

"Just a sec, Sammy."

He buttons it halfway, then unbuttons most of that, then starts buttoning it back up again, then pulls it off entirely and tosses it through Baby's open window. He leans against the car again, propping his leg up on the bumper and resting his elbow on his bent knee. 

"Really?" Sam asks, raising an eyebrow. "This is what you want?"

"What's wrong?"

Sam's mouth twitches. _Again._ "Nothing. It's just -- that's a lot of Blue Steel for the family photo album."

"Shut the fuck up."

"All right, all right. Say cheese."


	11. together - Dean/Cas, gen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For [](http://closertoblasphemy.tumblr.com/)[**closertoblasphemy**](http://closertoblasphemy.tumblr.com/), who was having a sad.

Cas moves into the bunker for good on a Saturday.

It's a regular Saturday -- chilly in the morning, the sky clear and bright by early afternoon -- but Dean is nervy and restless, can't keep still. He washes the dishes in the sink, and he organizes all the canned goods in the pantry, and he tidies up all the books and newspapers strewn around the library. When he starts attacking the dust-bunnies in the war room, Sam sighs and takes the broom away. He tells Dean to relax, that it's going to be okay, that it's not like he and Cas aren't already -- well. _You know._

And Dean appreciates the effort, but that's exactly the problem. He and Cas are -- they just _are_. They've never really talked about it, and Dean isn't entirely sure what they'd say if they did. _Boyfriend_ makes Dean feel like they're twelve years-old, and _partner_ sounds like they're the kind of expensive, Stanford lawyers Sam never got to be, and Cas -- Cas still thinks like an angel half the time, would probably just say humans make this kind of thing more difficult than it needs to be.

Whatever they are, it has mostly happened on the road, in cheap motels and in the back of the Impala, and -- on one memorable occasion -- in a campsite in the Ozarks, inside a tent Cas manifested with the last shreds of his grace. They've only spent the whole night together a handful of times, because one of them always had to go do _this_ or run off and save _that_ , and now they're going to live together, this is probably a terrible idea.

Cas shows up after dinner -- after Dean has practically paced a hole in the carpet, and after he had crept halfway down the garage stairs seventeen times because he thought he heard something. Cas looks tired and rumpled and kind of like he drove through the night, and Dean wants to kiss him right there in the doorway, but Sam always makes gagging noises when he does that, and it's impolite to throw things at his brother's head.

Instead, he follows Cas down the hallway to the sleeping quarters, and he half expects Cas to choose his own bedroom, because the last time Cas was human he slept at homeless shelters and in the back room at the Gas & Sip, has never really had his own place, but Cas just walks into Dean's room and sits on the bed.

He sits on the _other side_ of Dean's bed, the side Dean keeps to his back when he sleeps, the side that always feels cold when he wakes up in the morning. Cas catches Dean's hand and pulls him close, pulls until Dean is standing in front of him, and Dean kneels between Cas' legs because he wants to see Cas' face, because that side of the bed isn't going to be cold anymore, because Cas is going to be there in the morning, snoring into his shoulder and probably hogging all the blankets, and that's exactly what Dean wants, he knows it now, can feel it, a dull ache underneath his ribs.

And then Cas kisses him, and he needs a shower and he tastes like gas station coffee, and Dean loves him so much, so fucking much.


	12. breathe - Cas/Dean, gen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by this pic:
> 
> [[x](http://h-o-m-o-p-h-o-b-i-a.tumblr.com/post/25173973903)]

"Be still," Cas says softly, his mouth almost touching Dean's ear. "It's fine. Everything's fine."

Dean clutches at Cas' coat, shaking, his hands leaving sticky-red smears on the collar and sleeves. "No, it isn't."

Cas brushes his fingers through Dean's hair, murmuring Dean's name, and Dean presses closer, hides his face in the curve of Cas' shoulder. He's exhausted, feels sick; the bloodlust always washes over him like a wave, ebbing away in a rush that leaves him cold and empty and unable to breathe.

"You gotta do it," Dean whispers. The bodies in the warehouse are all vamps, but Dean had smiled as he sliced his way through them, had laughed at the screaming, at the blood running down his hands. "You gotta--"

"No."

"Cas, please."

Cas dips his head a little, his mouth bumping Dean's temple. "No."

"You promised," Dean says, his voice rough. He tries to pull away, to make Cas look him in the eye, but he's shaking too hard, can't make his arms and legs move the right way. He's only standing because Cas is holding him up. "You--"

"I said I would deal with it. I never agreed to kill you."

"Cas."

"No."

"Why not."

Cas kisses his cheek, the corner of his mouth. "Because I am selfish, and weak. It would be bad enough if you died, but doing it with my own hands -- I couldn't bear it."

Dean chokes out a noise; a sour knot is burning in the back of his throat, and the Mark is on fire, throbbing furiously on his arm.

"It's fine," Cas says again, and Dean forces himself to breathe. "Everything's fine."


	13. accidental - Cas/Dean, gen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wholly the fault of [](http://livebloggingmydescentintomadness.tumblr.com/)[**livebloggingmydescentintomadness**](http://livebloggingmydescentintomadness.tumblr.com/), who put these tags on [this](http://livebloggingmydescentintomadness.tumblr.com/post/111117455266/savingsammyhuntingdestiel-but-imagine-him-doing) post.
>
>> #but imagine him doing it to cas and he tries to just be casually joking but he blushes and fumbles cause you know he’s saying ‘be my valentine’ to cas #and cas just solemnly accents the plastic or disembodied or whatever heart #’thank you dean’ #and he like puts it in his pocket or something #so dean blushes more and stammers cause it was supposed to be a joke#but holy shit cas said yes??#so he just sorta doesn’t say anything#and thinks about if this means he needs to buy flowers#cas likes bees and bees like flowers so would cas like flowers??#and meanwhile sam sighs harder than he’s ever sighed in his life

Cas slurps the last of his soda, rattles the ice in the empty cup, slurps again, then turns to Dean and says, "Saint Valentine was beheaded."

Dean looks up from the burrito he's eating; he has guacamole on his fingers. "Okay."

"This case made me think of it," Cas continues. He rattles his ice again, then leans back against the seat, resting the cup on his thigh. "He was stoned first. When that didn't kill him, Emperor Claudius demanded his head."

"Okay."

"I just find it strange that his feast day is now a secular celebration of romance."

"That's probably Hallmark's fault," Dean says, taking another bite of his burrito. "Any excuse to sell sappy cards." A car turns the corner at the end of the block; they both slouch down as its headlights flare yellow-white across the Impala's dash. "I guess it makes sense -- isn't he the patron saint of love?"

The car passes the house they've been watching without stopping or slowing, and Cas says, "Marriage," as he straightens and peers down the street after it. "He's the patron saint of marriage, which historically has had little to do with romance."

"Huh." Dean has never given the saints much thought; there's a Saint Christopher medal in the Impala's glove box, has been for years, but that had been a gift from Bobby.

"He's also the patron saint of plague --"

"Weird."

"-- and beekeepers. Did you know --"

Dean groans and waves him off; if there's anything he cares about less than saints, it's fucking bees. "Don't start."

"Sorry," Cas says, in a quiet voice that makes Dean feel like an ass, but then his phone buzzes and Cas immediately perks up. "Is that Sam?"

"Yeah," Dean says, thumbing through the message. "Apparently, the dude at the mojo shop doesn't remember selling the stuff we found in those hex bags."

"She could've ordered it online."

"She -- online?" Dean sighs; he hadn't thought of that. Fucking internet. "If she -- wait," he says, sitting up a little as he spots someone walking down the street. "Grab that bottle of witch-killing shit. This might be our girl."

 

+

 

It hadn't been their girl, just some chick walking her dog. Accordingly, Dean is staring down at another pair of dead bodies -- the second pair since they rolled into town and the third since this nonsense started.

"Everything is the same," Cas observes.

The bodies are lying shoulder to shoulder, their arms at their sides and their hands clasped; the bed is strewn with rose petals and paper hearts.

"Yeah," Dean says, grabbing a handful of the hearts scattered around the husband's foot. They're the kind of thing kids make in elementary school, cut from red and pink construction paper. One of the pink ones is sloppily trimmed in white lace. "I don't get it." 

"I don't either," Sam says, threading his way between a couple of CSI guys. 

Dean glances around, then leans into Sam's shoulder and asks, "Hex bags?" in a low voice.

"Yeah." Sam pulls one out of his suit pocket and hands it to Dean. "I found them under the bathroom sink."

The stuff inside is the same as the others -- a mix of herbs and bird bones, some fingernail clippings that probably belonged to one of the victims. The first two sets had used hair.

"The rose petals," Cas says, brushing his fingers through a few as he skirts around the edge of the bed. His tie is crooked, flipped around the wrong way. "White roses mean marriage."

"Maybe," Sam says slowly. "But the first couple -- they were just living together."

"They also mean remembrance. Fresh starts." 

Dean sighs. "I liked this case better when we thought we had a motive." They'd figured it was jealousy at first, that maybe the witch had been in love with one half of the couple, or had been jilted by them, cheated on, _something_. But this -- this shit doesn't make sense.

"There might not be one," Cas says.

"What -- like a serial killer?" Sam asks, frowning. "Who uses witchcraft?"

"Maybe that's the weapon she's comfortable with."

Dean's phone rings; it's probably the coroner, calling to say yesterday's couple had died the same way as the first, strangulation without any outward trauma or bruising, like their throats had been crushed from the inside.

His hands are full; without really thinking about it, he shoves the paper hearts at Cas and says, "Happy Valentine's Day, dude."

"Dean," Cas says, his voice soft. He smiles, the kind of bright, wide-eyed smile Dean usually ignores because they make his chest ache. "Thank you."

Dean stares at him, feeling suddenly hot in his fed suit, unable to breathe. He hadn't -- except that he had -- except that he _hadn't_. "Cas, I -- I, um. I wasn't -- um." Jesus Christ, he doesn't even know what he's trying to say. "Cas --"

His phone starts ringing again. Sam coughs pointedly, and Dean snatches it out of his pocket, grumbling, "Agent Hetfield," with a slow flush burning over his jaw and cheeks.

 

+

 

When they get back to the cars, Cas lingers uncertainly beside the Continental. He still has the stupid paper hearts in his hand. 

"Dean," Cas says, catching Dean's sleeve, pulling hard enough that Dean has to stop, has to look him in the eye. "Did you -- you didn't mean it." It's not a question.

"No, I didn't," Dean admits. His voice sticks in the back of his throat, and watching Cas' face fall feels like a punch to the gut. "But I do," he adds quickly. Fuck, his cheeks are on fire. "I would've -- I want, um. I want that."

"Okay," Cas says. He runs his fingers along the line of Dean's jaw, and Dean closes his eyes, leans in when Cas tugs him closer by the tie, lets Cas kiss him soft and slow. 

Behind them, Sam sighs like he's dying. Reluctantly, Dean pulls away from Cas long enough to toss Sam the Impala's keys.


	14. uncursed - Cas/Dean, gen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For [](http://deanhugchester.tumblr.com/)[**deanhugchester**](http://deanhugchester.tumblr.com/), who [asked nicely](http://deanhugchester.tumblr.com/post/116255585890/who-wants-to-write-me-some-fluffy).

Rowena hadn't lied; the Mark is an old curse, but it's just a curse, will come off if someone draws the right sigils, says the right words.

Dean doesn't know where Sam gets the dusty old parchment with the instructions, doesn't know what he paid or traded or gave up. He disappears with Cas for a couple days -- the morning after Dean almost killed them both in a blood-soaked rage -- then comes back white-lipped and exhausted, has dark circles under his eyes, speaks like he's dragging his voice up from the bottom of a well. Cas looks anxious as he grinds celandine with henbane and bird bones, his movements jerky, his mouth pursed like he has something to say but can't find the words, doesn't know where to start.

The last ingredient is the hardest.

"The next time I see any of you," Death says blandly, his gaze lingering too long on Cas as he bleeds into a copper bowl, "I expect to take you to your end."

Cas pours the hoodoo on Dean's arm and Sam recites the spell, and it hurts like fire, hurts like hell all over again, the Mark burning worse than it ever has, everything inside Dean twisting and writhing and dying. He screams himself hoarse, comes close to swallowing his tongue, passes out with the taste of sulfur in his mouth, wakes up to Cas lifting him off the dungeon floor.

"It's over," Cas says quietly. "It's done."

Dean doesn't answer. He doesn't have anything left. He feels scraped raw, open and exposed, hollowed out. He's just an empty shell without the rage, limp and worthless. He gets into bed because Sam and Cas lead him there. He doesn't think he can sleep -- is almost afraid to -- but he drifts off eventually, too drained to fight it.

He wakes up to Cas curled behind him; Cas is holding his arm, stroking his thumb over the place where the Mark used to be. Dean isn't sure he deserves it, but he's grateful for it -- the warmth, the tenderness, the fact that Cas didn't leave him alone -- so grateful he makes a noise in the back of his throat, small and soft and choked.

"Shh," Cas says, his mouth at the back of Dean's neck. "Go back to sleep."

Dean does as he's told. He doesn't dream.

He rolls over at some point in the night; when he wakes up again he's facing Cas, has head tucked under Cas' chin and his hand balled in the front of Cas' shirt. He tries not to move, afraid he'll ruin it, that Cas will pull away if he knows Dean's awake, but Cas shifts closer, kisses his forehead, gently touches his hair. 

"You should be sleeping."

"I've been sleeping."

"The spell we worked didn't remove the Mark so much as give you the strength needed to reject it." Cas tugs Dean closer still, tucks his hand under Dean's shirt, holds it at the small of Dean's back. "You may feel weak and tired for a few days. Nauseous. Sore like you've overexerted yourself."

He shifts again, tangling their legs, and Dean closes his eyes.

"You don't have to, to --" Dean clears his throat, unable to say it. He wants this with Cas, wants it desperately, but not if Cas doesn't mean it, not if he's just babysitting because he thinks Dean can't be left alone. "You don't --"

"Do you remember anything you said after the spell took effect?"

"No."

Cas kisses Dean's forehead again, his mouth lingering. "You told me you love me. Right before you fell unconscious."

"Cas --"

"You said you wanted me to know -- you were convinced the cure was killing you."

Dean is silent for a moment; having it all out there is worse than an open wound. Finally, he says, "It's true."

"I know," Cas says simply. "I've always known. But you seemed unwilling to address it, so I never brought it up."

"Cas --"

Cas huffs and kisses the corner of his mouth. "Sleep a little more. You need it."

Dean wakes once to Cas behind him again, his chest a solid warmth against Dean's back, and again to Cas half underneath him, his head on Cas' shoulder and his arm around Cas' waist. The third time, Cas is sitting up beside him; he has his face hidden in Cas' thigh and his hand curled around the back of Cas' knee. Cas is reading a book with one hand, stroking Dean's hair with the other.

"How do you feel?" he asks.

"Almost like a person."

"Good." Cas leans down, kissing Dean long and easy and slow. "You've been asleep almost three days; you should eat something and let your brother know you're still alive."

"Has he, um -- did he --"

"He's checked on you several times," Cas says, setting the book aside. "He was pleased to see you sleeping soundly. He also said -- and I quote -- 'took you long enough.'"

"Asshole," Dean snorts, wincing as he sits up. He's kind of queasy, and his back and shoulders ache like he lost a fight, and Cas is watching him, his eyes too wide and too blue. "I'm gonna eat, and then we should -- I don't know, talk or something."

"I love you," Cas says, like it's easy. "There's nothing else to discuss."


	15. nonesuch - Cas/Dean, gen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by [this photoset](http://ohidjit.tumblr.com/post/111727495506/and-then-youd-kill-the-angel-castiel-now-that).

Watching Dean descend is terrifying.

Before Metatron cast him from heaven, Cas had never truly understood what that was like. He'd been afraid during the apocalypse, but that had been an abstract feeling, muted by his inhumanity and buried under a sense of resignation, the futility of fighting against something that had seemed inexorable, inevitable. He'd been afraid again in purgatory -- more for Dean than for himself -- but it had paled beside the weight of his guilt.

This is different, bone-deep and constant; it clamors inside him like a living thing, gnawing at the edges of his grace. He's often suspected he left a piece of himself behind when he pulled Dean from perdition -- only a sliver, but enough. The shadow on Dean's soul lengthens every day, and Cas feels it like a hand around his own throat.

"Cas," Dean says weakly, his eyes slowly regaining focus. Cain's bloodlust seems to roll over him like a wave, ebbing into a hollow sort of exhaustion; his hands shake as he offers Cas his knife.

"It's okay," Cas says. The body at Dean's feet is a shifter's, so that's only partially a lie.

"No, I -- no," Dean starts, but fear creeps underneath Cas' ribs -- fear that Dean will finally break down and _ask_ \-- so he gathers Dean close, holding one hand at the back of Dean's neck, letting his thumb brush the dip behind Dean's ear. It's a true measure of Dean's condition that he doesn't bristle, that he doesn't pretend he's not in need of comfort.

One day Dean _will_ ask, and Cas will be forced to see the anger and betrayal on Dean's face when he refuses, when he admits that he isn't strong enough to do what Dean wants. He already killed Dean once. He already killed Dean a thousand times. Naomi's copies had been perfect: some had smiled at Cas and some had cursed at him; some had begged Cas not to do it, and some had promised things Cas had still then been pretending he didn't want. 

Naomi's copies had been perfect, but the air around them hadn't hummed, the light of their souls hadn't stolen Cas' breath; standing beside them hadn't felt like something missing slotting into place.

Naomi's copies had been perfect, but none of them had been _Dean_.


	16. almost domesticated - Cas/Dean, gen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For [](http://cocklestrash.tumblr.com/)[**cocklestrash**](http://cocklestrash.tumblr.com/), who was having a bad day.

They grab pizzas the first night and get a ridiculous amount of Chinese the second, but by the third Dean's credit card is starting to feel the strain. Instead of ordering out again, Dean throws together a chicken enchilada casserole with a recipe he tore out of a home and garden magazine months ago and the stuff he already has in the fridge. He shreds chicken and layers not-quite-stale tortillas into a pan, and when Charlie wanders into the kitchen for another beer, he nags her into grating some cheese so he can finish fighting with the sauce.

Cas doesn't eat anything, and Sam spends ten minutes on the phone, talking Rudy through the different ways to kill a lamia, but other than that it's almost normal -- the four of them sitting around the table together, just shooting the shit and sharing a meal.

 

+

 

Charlie takes off the next morning -- "Just for a couple of days! I wanna see if any of my stuff survived Styne's goons!" -- but Dean's already in the habit. He likes having everyone around, and he doesn't want to go back to eating Hot Pockets alone in his bedroom with a lore book in his lap, at least not yet.

Halfway to the White's in Smith Center, Dean gets a taste for meatloaf, the kind his mother used to make, sliced thick with a layer of ketchup on top. He puts two pounds of good ground beef in his cart, then walks up and down the aisles until he finds the saltine crackers, then loses ten minutes in the produce department, turning circles around the apples and melons while he tries to remember if he has onions back at the bunker. He ends up grabbing a couple just to be safe, and he also gets a sack of russet potatoes, because baked potatoes go with everything, and a bag of salad mix, because Sam doesn't think that potatoes qualify as a vegetable.

The meatloaf comes out perfect, as do the potatoes; Cas gets about a third of the way through one before deciding the molecules are too much.

 

+

 

Cas heads out at the end of the week, murmuring about a "loose end" he needs to tie up; he comes back three days later looking windswept and smelling like the Kansas rain, carrying a canvas grocery bag full of vegetables.

"Hastings has a farmer's market," he explains, setting two bell peppers on the counter. They're both a bright, healthy green and larger than Dean's fist, and Dean tries to picture it -- Cas wandering between the stalls, frowning at the different kinds of produce, poking things with his grace to see if they're ripe.

He can't, really; it's just too weird. Instead, he digs through the rest of Cas' haul, finding carrots and onions and celery and cucumbers. The last two are more Sam's department, but the rest of it will make a decent pot of chili, with some tomato paste thinned with beer. There are a couple of cans of beans in the pantry, and he can use up the leftover ground beef in the fridge.

Charlie isn't back yet, and Sam is up in Sioux Falls, helping Jody and Alex with what had sounded like ghouls over the phone, so when the chili is done Dean takes a beer and his bowl out to the library. A few minutes later, Cas comes out with his own beer and a coffee mug with about three and a half spoonfuls of chili in it. He sits down beside Dean, close enough that their elbows bump, and he hesitates over the chili like he's afraid of it, frowning at it, poking it gingerly with his spoon.

"You don't have to do that," Dean says, which sounds more dickish out loud than it had in his head. "I mean, I know it's all just molecules to you."

Cas just shrugs, human in a way that makes Dean ache a little. "It's not as bad as it was before." He takes a small bite, chewing and swallowing thoughtfully. "With my own grace... I still taste the parts, but I can also taste the whole if I really try. Besides, you seem to enjoy it."

"What?"

"Having company while you eat."

"Yeah, I -- yeah." Dean hides behind his beer for a second, feeling weirdly self-conscious. Family dinners aren't something he's ever really had, except for that year he spent with Lisa, so he can't really explain it, except that the bunker is too big for just him and Sam sometimes. Having everyone around had dulled the angry heat on his arm, and it had warmed something in Dean's chest to see Cas out of his coat and tie. "It's nice -- you know, when everyone's here." He finishes his beer, setting the bottle down a little too hard because his hand is shaking. "When you're here."

"Dean." Cas turns slightly, laying his hand on Dean's wrist. "You know I wouldn't leave if it wasn't necessary."

"I know that," Dean says, heat crowding under his jaw. "I know it. I just -- I." 

Cas shifts his hand, tangling their fingers together, and he says, "Dean," again in a lighter voice. "The other day, I went -- I'm trying to arrange things so I can stay."

"Stay," Dean repeats slowly. He pushes his chili away; his stomach is twisting too much. "What -- like, here?"

"Yes." Something uncertain crosses Cas' face, and that's not what Dean wants at all. "If you --"

Dean kisses him, smiling against his mouth because of the soft, pleased sound he makes. Because he wants to stay. Because -- _because_. Dean will cook dinner when they're not on the road, and Cas will pretend to eat it, and maybe hold his hand under the table, and it'll be almost normal, and almost normal is something Dean can totally do.


	17. angel heart cut scene - Cas/Dean, gen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 100% GENUINE MISSING SCENE FROM ANGEL HEART.

"I'm looking for Claire Novak," Cas tells the dude at the nurses' station. He's tall and skinny and his red scrubs clash with his freckles and nearly-orange hair. "She was admitted late last night."

"Only immediate family for the first twenty-four hours."

"I'm her father," Cas says, pulling out his wallet. He sets Jimmy Novak's drivers license on the counter; Freckles frowns at it for a second, then points and Dean and Sam.

"What about them?"

Cas hesitates, the silence stretching out a little too long to be casual. Dean figures Cas will just lean over the counter and zap the guy; he doesn't expect Cas to grab his arm and say, "He's my husband."

Freckles blinks. Sam makes a noise under his breath. "Excuse me?"

"This man is my husband," Cas says again, and something squirms in Dean's chest, underneath his ribs. Cas squeezes his arm, then tilts his head at Sam. "That's his -- he's my brother-in-law."

"She's in 119," Freckles says, glancing at his clipboard. "Down the hall on the right."

"Thank you."

Cas turns, sliding his hand down Dean's arm, his thumb brushing Dean's wrist as he tangles their fingers together.

 

+

 

Cas pauses at the end of the hall; he's still holding Dean's hand.

"I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"For --" Cas lifts their hands, frowning slightly as he lets go. Dean barely stops himself from reaching out, taking it back. "I didn't --"

"It's cool," Dean says quickly. His face is starting to heat; he can feel it behind his ears, underneath his jaw. "You had to -- it's cool."

 

+

 

[fabulous TFW + Claire hospital scene]

 

+

 

"All right," Sam says, shrugging. "I'll head to the motel. You check out the bar."

As they file out into the hallway, Cas grabs Dean's hand. "Just in case."

"Yeah, okay," Dean says, clearing his throat. "Just in case."

The nurses' station is empty when they get to the lobby, but Dean doesn't let go. Probably better if they keep it up until they get back to the car.


	18. first date - Cas/Dean, gen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [](http://dirtyovercoats.com/)[ **dirtyovercoats**](http://dirtyovercoats.com/), who wanted an awkward first date. Unfortunately, this is only mostly that.

"Okay," Dean tells his reflection. "Okay. You can do this. It's just dinner."

They're at the ritzy Italian restaurant in Smith Center, which is the kind of place Dean usually avoids unless he's questioning the manager about the weird rattling noise in the stockroom or the cold spots behind the bar. The mirror in the restroom is rose-colored; between that and the dim lighting he seems younger, more bright-eyed. He doesn't look like a guy who's been to hell or been a demon or -- any of that.

He checks his watch. He's been gone a little over eight minutes.

It took him about four years to realize he was in love with Cas and about three more years to actually admit it. Another two months passed before he finally worked up the nerve to ask Cas out, and then it was another month before the monsters cut them a break long enough to make a reservation somewhere. All of that, and now Dean is hiding in the restroom like a fucking baby because that's easier than making conversation with a guy he already more or less lives with.

"Okay," Dean says again. The restroom's floor and counters are all dark-polished marble, so his voice hums around the stillness, just enough to set his teeth on edge.

Nine minutes. Cas doesn't really get bored, not like humans do, but he does get irritated sometimes, and Dean's been gone so long that he's starting to imagine the worst -- Cas drumming his fingers on the fancy tablecloth, frowning at the breadsticks the server brought over in a delicate, gold-wire basket, stabbing a cocktail straw into the twelve-dollar martini he ordered.

A fucking chocolate martini, because molecules or not he's developed a sweet-tooth over the last few months. He chews watermelon gum when he drives, and he leaves Starburst wrappers on the couch when he watches tv, and he likes to hang out in the bunker's kitchen when Dean is baking, just so he can sample the pie filling while it's hot and sneak raw cookie dough behind Dean's back. When Dean tells him not to, he just shrugs and says, _Stop worrying, Dean, I can't actually get botulism_.

Ten minutes. Dean should really get back out there, before Cas gives up on him and leaves. They drove over in the Impala, but Cas knows how to steal a car. He's got his own credit cards now, so he could pay a taxi. He could --

"Dean?"

Dean doesn't quite jump out of his skin, but it's close. He turns around as Cas is stepping out of the shadows in the doorway, and -- wow. Dean has seen him in his gray fed suit a hundred times, but he's wearing a slate-blue shirt tonight instead of his usual white, and his soft, grey and blue tie is a little loose, the knot slightly off center. His throat is all smooth skin and long lines, and Dean can't stop staring. He wants to touch, but that feels like it should be impossible. With the restroom's dull light humming behind him, Cas looks as otherworldly as he actually is, like all that stardust and intent is just right there, bright enough to burn Dean out if he gets too close.

"Dean," Cas says again, taking another step inside. "Are you all right?"

"Yeah, I was just -- um."

Cas pauses for a moment, his mouth soft at the corners. Soft and kind of sad. "If you're uncomfortable, we don't --"

"No, I want to," Dean blurts. "I want to. I just -- I don't really know how to do this."

"If it makes you feel any better, neither do I."

Oh, right. Of course. Dean feels like the biggest idiot alive.

"You know, this isn't necessary," Cas continues, his voice careful and low. "As I understand things, people date so they can get to know each other, and so they can decide if they'd like to pursue a relationship. I already know everything about you, and I don't need to decide anything. I chose you years ago."

"Cas," Dean says. His throat feels tight. "I just -- I wanted us to do something normal. You know, just once."

Cas studies him for a moment, then kisses him, leaning in slow and brushing their mouths together easy and soft. He tastes like chocolate and vodka from his stupid martini, and he curls his hand around the back of Dean's neck, stroking his thumb over the dip behind Dean's ear. As he pulls away, he slides his other hand down Dean's arm, pausing at Dean's wrist before he laces their fingers together.

"Dean," he says quietly. "Have dinner with me."

"Yeah," Dean says, kissing him again. "Yeah, I can do that."


	19. noiseless - Dean, gen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Coda-lite; spoilers for 11x13.
> 
> Warning: this is mostly Dean rambling about the hold Amara has over him.

It hadn't been quiet.

That had been his first clue that the Amara in that witch's basement wasn't real. The qareen had looked at Dean too coldly, and its movements had been to stiff, but before he'd noticed that he'd heard its footsteps. He'd heard the plastic sheeting brush its shoulder. He'd heard a car drive by outside.

The real Amara drowns all that out. Whenever she draws him into her orbit, everything else disappears. The world behind her blurs. An empty pressure rings in his ears. When she brought him to that field, everything had been quiet, so fucking quiet. No birds. No wind. No heartbeats. No _anything_. 

He's ashamed of himself when he finally admits it. Heat crowds under his jaw, and a thick, rising feeling claws into his throat. He should be better than this. He should be stronger. When the hellhounds came, he'd been willing to fight. When Lucifer had stared him with with Sam's face, he'd stuck his chin out and kept talking. How he's useless, helpless. When Amara's around he can feel her tugging at him, like a hand pushed up underneath his ribs, pulling him down, dragging him under. 

It isn't _desire_. He'd been terrified when she kissed him. A slow chill had crawled over his skin. He doesn't want to touch her. He just wants her to fill the empty space she's carved for herself in his chest. He just wants to hear the quiet.

"It's going to be okay," Sam tells him, as I-90 ribbons through the wheat-gold burn of western Ohio. 

Dean clears his throat and mumbles, "Yeah."

He turns the radio up just to hear the noise.


	20. anew - Cas/Dean, gen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was originally posted as a [tweet thread](https://twitter.com/xylodemon/status/928019942091321344), so it's kinda choppy. Buyer beware, etc.

The car Cas steals breaks down northeast of Tucumcari, not far from the New Mexico state line. The sun is relentless. He's been gone long enough for Sam and Dean to get new phones. He sheds his coat and walks toward Texas.

He can sense them in a way - he can sense Dean, at least. when he first woke in that field, he was overcome by a deep thrum of longing. He walks. heat shimmers up ahead. the sun sets fire to the horizon.

Night falls, and a slow wind pushes across the sand. Cas walks. Restless, his wings ache. The sun is rising again as he approaches Dalhart. He steals another car in the parking lot of a truck stop. He breathes in grease and dust as he twists the wires under the dash.

He calls Dean's number again, but a dull, computerized voice says it's no longer in service. Longing hums under his skin. He drives toward Kansas, east and east and east, following the tug beneath his ribs like a beacon. He drive east until the feeling pulls him off the highway and into Enid, Oklahoma. There, longing ebbs around him like the tide.

He catches threads of a prayer, something muttered out of habit, not belief — _I miss you, man. I wish — I wish._ He crissrosses the town, searching around the edges, and all the shadowed, hollow places the Winchesters call home.

He finds the Impala parked at the third motel he checks. Dean is standing at the open trunk, and Cas feels — he feels - he —

He expects Dean to yell, to pull a knife, a gun, to throw holy water in his face. But Dean stares. His hands shake. His voice dips around Cas' name.

Cas says, "Hello, Dean," and smiles. He reaches out and touches Dean's face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Photo credits:
> 
> [[x]](http://roadsideserviced.tumblr.com/post/166845984924/kafkasapartment-buick-2005-patricia-mcdonough) [[x]](http://roadsideserviced.tumblr.com/post/164482346121) [[x]](http://roadsideserviced.tumblr.com/post/165434751581)


End file.
